Moment of Madness
by jennyfair
Summary: After the events following Don Juan Triumphant, Erik's broken mind is haunted by the memory of Christine…but he is not entirely alone. A sequel to Moment of Weakness, but can be read as a standalone piece. Originally posted to Aria in 2005. Erik/Mannequin.


She had nearly been destroyed when the mob had torn apart his home in search of him all those weeks ago. Erik had wanted to sink her down into the depths of the lake, rid himself of her haunting image…but he could not deprive himself of this one remaining likeness. And so he restored her painstakingly, pouring his grief and frustrated love into the tedious actions of sculpting and repairing. The hands that had trembled and grown clumsy when caressing her wax form were now steady, precise. Almost clinical.

The metal bands making up her torso had been twisted beyond saving and were replaced with the padded frame of a dress form that had conveniently gone missing from the Opéra's costume department. When he was finished, he placed her in the bedroom. It was the only space that had been completely spared from the mob's rage, due to its concealed entrance. He deliberately tried to suppress other memories associated with that particular room…

The wedding gown she used to wear was gone - the perfectly-tailored white satin had trailed behind Christine as she had left him forever. Now she wore a simple shift, another "borrowed" item from above. Originally he had arranged her atop the coverlet, fearful if she were warmly nestled beneath the covers that he may be tempted as before. Soon, however, he found he could not bear to see her small feet exposed to the chill of the air. He knew full well that she could not feel but could not repress the urge to attend to her every comfort. And so eventually he yielded and tucked her between the sheets.

It was not long after that Erik took to sleeping next to her in the bed. Each night he told himself that it would be the last, that the next morning he would make new arrangements. Yet every morning, the peaceful sight of her lying there beside him was the only joy in his miserable existence and he knew that he would once again surrender in the evening. And though sometimes, in moments of quiet desperation, he cradled his ruined face in her stiff hands, he never again gave into the desire to possess her utterly.

* * *

His sleep was restless that night as it was every night, painful memories from his subconscious rising unbidden to the surface. He dreamt of the Punjab lasso, a veil flung to the ground, his first and final kiss. He saw her leave with _that boy_ , heard himself call after her - "I love you, Christine…I love you!"

 _I love you…_

Erik woke crying the words aloud, drenched in a cold sweat, sheets wound tightly around his tense frame. He sat up, gasping for air, and freed himself from the confining material. He groped blindly for the mask, but that, like so much else, was gone - taken by the little Giry girl. He knew that the only other occupant of the room was incapable of seeing his deformity yet he still felt the ingrained urge to cover himself. His fingers met those of the mannequin in their search for the mask and he calmed somewhat. Taking her hand in his, he pressed it urgently to his cheek, rocking back and forth until his breathing slowed and he grew still. He kissed her smooth palm before lowering himself to lie at her side. He longed to seek comfort in her arms but did not dare.

He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. For a time he contented himself by simply lying next to her, but the memory of his nightmare remained and her closeness was so very enticing. Her presence was a constant reminder that the woman she mimicked was gone, but all the same he felt his treacherous body responding to the feel of her so near. Raising himself on his elbow, he gazed down at her. Despite the darkness that surrounded them he could see her clearly, each dainty feature familiar and precious to him. Even now, his dreams tormented by the memory of her, he loved her. His Christine…

 _No, not yours. She left you to die alone…left with her precious vicomte_.

A cruel Voice lurked in the back of his mind, and he found himself answering aloud.

"I sent her away. I _made_ her leave, made them swear…"

 _But she could have stayed. She could have come back_.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the Voice. "She was right to leave. What kind of life could I have given her? Without sun, or light…She deserves the world, not a cellar."

 _And you could have given it to her. What need of hers did you never fulfill?_

The Voice was right. When she had still been with him, Erik had dedicated his existence to providing Christine with everything he could offer - he had been her teacher, her guardian...her Angel of Music. If she had stood by his side, loved him, he would have had the courage to venture back into the world above, for her.

This time he spoke not to the Voice but to the figure beside him, as if it were Christine he addressed and not her reproduction. He loomed above her, growling low in his throat as he imprisoned her arms with a powerful grip. "I would have given you anything…everything! You already possessed my soul, what more did you want of me?" His fingers curled more firmly around her upper arms.

"Ah, but I forget. The love and unfaltering devotion of a monster were not what you wanted, were they? These murderous hands could never please you like a handsome face and a title!" Erik nearly spat the words, grasping her with bruising force, digging into the wax beneath her thin sleeves. Blood pounded in his ears as he looked down at the face he loved and loathed in equal measures. He wanted to crush her into the softness of the bed as he had only once before, to punish her with his body instead of worship. He wanted to love her with his misshapen, eager mouth until she writhed beneath him and cried out for him alone.

It would be cold comfort to exact payment from this pale imitation for the sins of the original, yet he already found himself wrenching her rigid legs apart to kneel between them. Shaking hands crept about her slender neck. Erik's thumbs squeezed where her windpipe should have been, his breath coming in harsh gasps. His hands stilled as he caught the faint scent of violets. He closed his eyes and breathed in the soft fragrance. How many nights had he dreamt of her return, the scent of her filling his senses as it did now? And how many nights had he awoken alone, unsatisfied, heart and body aching for her?

Instantly removing his hands from her throat, he shifted her to face away from him and retreated to the other side of the bed. He could not bring himself to look into the flat depths of her glass eyes. He pictured the true Christine coming back to him, her shining blue eyes open wide. He would fall to his knees at her feet and bury his hideous face in her skirts. He would place his ring on her finger once more and claim her as his own, words of love pouring from his dead mouth…

The cunning Voice of madness hovered at the threshold of his consciousness, enticing him.

 _But_ she _has returned to you, Erik. The one who truly loved you, truly accepted you…_ all _of you._

Erik looked to the body lying so near, her back turned to him. The Voice was not lying. She _had_ returned. It had taken no small effort, but she had come back to him. _She_ was here, now…and he had repaid her with cruelty. He crept up behind her slowly, placing a repentant hand on her shoulder and leaning in to whisper, "Forgive your poor beast, Christine."

When she did not respond he gently drew back the dark curtain of her hair to reveal her throat. His fingers traced where, if blood flowed beneath the surface, the skin would have been bruised from his rough handling. He pleaded for her forgiveness with his lips, pressing them tenderly where his fingertips had dug into the wax. He nestled his disfigured cheek into the curve of her neck, his arm wrapping around her waist to pull her against him. In his mind she relaxed into him, her small fingers closing over his hand - a sign that she had absolved his sin against her. As he breathed in her perfume he turned her to rest on her back and positioned himself above her.

Craving some measure of comfort, he let the madness descend upon him as he fantasized that the false Christine beneath him was the same from his dreams. He removed the ring he still wore and lifted her hand to slide it onto her sculpted finger. _With this ring, I thee wed…_ He cupped her cheek. "My Angel. My bride…" He looked lovingly down upon her, dragging his thumb across her chin as he stared at the inviting pink of her mouth. _With my body, I thee worship…_

The Voice taunted him yet again.

 _Take her._

Erik hesitated, but the Voice changed…softened…

 _Take me, Erik…_

He whimpered, unable to resist the Voice any longer. He descended upon his new bride, moaning faintly against her lips as his hands traced the outline of her form through the flimsy material of the chemise. Inexpert fingers struggled to undo the delicate ties at the front, finally slipping the fabric over both shoulders. Erik kissed each inch of skin as it was revealed and envisioned her shifting below him, shyly responding to his touch. His hands grew more daring as he imagined her soft sounds of pleasure, sounds that he inspired. Even then he knew a moment of doubt.

"You will not deny your husband? Not when he has waited so patiently for you…" She did not deny him as the shift was slid lower over her breasts, the hem eased up over her knees and hips. Nor did she resist when he stripped away his own nightclothes to lean his bare form against hers. "I love you, Christine. Tell me you love me…"

The Voice answered him.

 _I love you, Erik._

He explored her with his hands, timidly caressing each part. There was no fire in the grate, nothing to light the room, and in the darkness it was simple for his broken mind to transform inflexible cotton padding and wax into the pliable flesh of a woman. Of Christine. There was a sharp gasp as he imagined joining with her, burying his hated body deep inside her warm, beautiful one.

He moved instinctively against her, biting his lip against a groan as his narrow hips surged forward again and again. He was quickly becoming lost, sinking further and further into the depths of his delusion. The delirium he had succumbed to allowed him to feel her slick heat in place of his own touch, to focus on the reality of her solid weight beneath him. He rested his forehead against her collarbone for a moment, panting for breath, trying to regain control. His efforts were unsuccessful as his mind was filled with images of her gentle touch on his body, evoking pleasure where there had only ever been pain. His voice was strained as he pleaded for more.

Imagining her small, impatient hands pressing him onto his back, he pulled the unresisting form of the mannequin on top of him and tangled his legs with hers. In his madness he could hear her murmur words of love and desire, feel her hot breath teasing his ear. A coy, feminine smile played about her lips as she moved above him. He gripped the curve of her hip as he frantically rose to meet her, desperate to feel every possible inch of her pressed against him.

"Oh, Christine… _Christine_ …please…" He begged her for release, sobbing and shaking almost violently beneath her. Their pace quickened, and with it, the flow of blood that threatened to burst his veins.

 _Go – go now, and leave me!_

The tortured words he had spoken that night echoed loudly in his ears, even as his trembling deepened to become a shudder that wracked his thin frame and sent relief surging through him. He cried out her name - not to the lifeless figure in his arms, but to the living, waking woman who had disappeared in the arms of another. There was no shame, now - only grief - and he wept as his heartbeat gradually slowed. He cradled his motionless bride in his arms and spoke out into the silence of the room.

"Please, stay. Don't leave me."

Whether he addressed the figure in his embrace or the Voice that tormented him, he could not be certain.

 _I will stay, Erik…I will never leave you._

A kind of peace filled his shattered mind as his eyes fluttered closed under the weight of sleep. He did not dream.

* * *

 _A/N: My second piece of fan fiction, originally written and posted to Aria in 2005 under the pen name waxing poetic. Noticing a trend? ;) No major changes, I've just polished the edges._


End file.
